The aftermaths of a bullet
by Strapakai
Summary: A single bullet changes Roadblock's life forever, setting him against a new battle that will last a life time.
1. Chapter 1

Authors note: I was watching the Food Network weeks ago. There was an episode about this chef, and the commentator stated that diabetes was a cruel disease for a cook to have. That stayed with me and this story came about.

If any one is interested in Beta reading it for me, please drop me a note.

**The aftermaths of a bullet **

Roadblock remembered seeing the bullet coming towards him, followed by excruciating pain. In the laps of time that followed, it could have been minutes or hours, he lay on the ground listening to the battle around him. A part of his brain (that oddly sounded like Beach Head) was yelling at him to get up. He was one of the elite; he was not to be taken down by a small bullet. However, his body refused to move.

Then, a medic was at his side, assessing his condition. "We have to move ya," Lifeline's assistant said. "I'll give ya something to make it bearable first."

In moments, Roadblack was basking in the fuzzy oblivion of morphine. Doc had morphine syringes, destined to emergency med packs, loaded in two doses: Joe and greenshirt. The first dose was on the high end, since most Joes had a high body mass. Besides, they were usually the less cooperative patients, and Doc liked his injured and bleeding clients as cooperative as possible. In addition, several studies had demonstrated that the rapid administration of sufficient painkillers in the field following injury reduced the occurrence of PTSD. Soldiers of lower body mass, like Lifeline and the lady Joes got the 'greershirt' dose.

At the field triage center, Roadblock's wound was packed to reduce haemorrhaging. He was then shipped out on the next medivac.

Roadblock woke two days later, in the familiar smelling confines of the PIT's infirmary. The first thing he became aware of was two arguing voices nearby. He identified one was being Clutch and the other was Doc. He started to open his eyes, but the room began to spin, so he closed them again.

"Welcome back," said the familiar gentle voice of Nurse Maggie. "Are you in any pain?"

At the mention of pain, Roadblock became aware of the burning in his abdomen and the stabbing of each breath. He grunted. He was G.I. Joe, he could take a little pain. He heard a click and seconds later the fire in his belly was quelled.

"I know my Boys," Nurse Maggie told him with her velvet glove that covered the iron hand. "Doc wants you to stay quiet just a while longer. He wants to put you through another MRI, to make sure we got all the shrapnel out. Now, don't jump, I am going to prick your finger." He felt the little needle and jumped a little, despite the warning. Seconds later he heard a beep. "It is all done. Doc will be with you in a few minutes."

Roadblock opened his eyes slowly, this time the room did not spin. He looked over to the other side of the room. Clutch was across the room, two beds down. His right leg was in some sort of traction.

"There is no way you can get out," Doc was saying. "You'll only injure yourself more and have to spend more time here. I'd hate to have to cut that leg off. It took me three hours to get all the bone pieces aligned again. If you don't tug at it, you'll fully recover without even a limp." Clutch grumbled sometime intelligible. "I'll ask Nurse Maggie to bring you something to do, if you are good and I can find a working TV, we'll set up the PS2."

Clutch sighed. "Okay Doc."

Doc rose from the foot of Clutch's bed and came towards Roadblock. "Good to see you are back among us. How do you feel?"

"Nurse Maggie just dosed me," the larger man said, vaguely pointing towards the door where the nurse had left.

Doc pulled the isolation curtain around the bed, before he sat on the chair by it. He opened Roadblock's file. "I am not going to beat around the bush. That bullet and the shrapnel from the vest did a lot of damage to your insides. We had to take out part of your intestine and pancreas. We also had to sew up a large hole in your stomach. The good news is that by some miracle, both kidneys and liver appear to be intact." Doc spoke in a voice that was just low enough for Roadblock to hear and not carry beyond the curtain. "You'll be going through an MRI within the hour to see if I missed anything. You follow me so far?"

Roadblock nodded. "I think so, Doc. You had to sew my insides back together. I assume that means no food for a while and then really bland tasteless stuff for too long after that.

"Yes, you will be on a restricted diet until things have healed a bit. Do you know what the pancreas does?"

"Uncle James has diabetes; I think it is because his pancreas does not work."

Doc nodded. "It makes insulin that controls the levels of sugar in your blood. The lack of insulin is the cause for diabetes. Roadblock, we had to take your pancreas out. It was ripped to bits by the shrapnel and important blood vessels were cut, the few vessels that were left were packed too tight to provide any blood flow to what was left. I am sorry, I really had not choice."

"What does that mean Doc?"

"You are now insulin dependant. That means you will have to check your blood sugars several times a day. While you are here, we will be checking it through the night too. We have to figure out exactly how much insulin you need given how much you eat. Any food you ingest will have to be tracked. You will have to inject your self with insulin before every meal, and sometimes in between."

"Doc, what does it mean for in the field? I can't stop in the middle of a battle to check my blood."

"Roadblock, I am sorry, but there will not be any more field work."

"Am I discharged?" Roadblock said, raising his voice in indignation.

"Not necessarily, but you will be restricted to base duty."

Roadblock was silent for along moment. The idea of going inactive, just like that, hit him hard. As a soldier, he knew intellectually that he could get injured in a way that would prevent him from keeping on with his military career. He had seen it happen to others. But this was not the same. He had not lost an arm, or a leg, or broken his back.

"I am looking into getting you an insulin pump, so you won't have to inject yourself so often. Once you are recovered enough to be released from the infirmary, we will arrange for you to get diabetes training at Memorial Hospital in town. In the mean time, Nurse Maggie is brushing up on what she knows and will come to give you some basic information on managing your condition."

"Doc, Doc stop!" It was too much for him to take in. "What happens if I do nothing? No sugar check, no insulin."

"Ignoring your condition will lead to your death. You could possibly harm others. If you hide somewhere so you don't harm any one, your death will probably be pleasant, unless you go into a diabetic coma in your sleep. Nurse Maggie will have a full list of symptoms and consequences. I will not hide it from you. You are facing a rough road. You will be fighting this battle for the rest of your life. If you fight it right, you will live long and healthy."

Roadblock pressed his head against the pillow. His barely post anaesthetic brain could hardly sense of half of what Doc was saying. Doc saw the confusion in his patient's eyes and knew it was not the time to press. He patted Roadblock on the arm reassuringly.

"Nurse Maggie will tell you more later. Right now, I am sending an orderly in to take you to get a scan. Just rest."

Doc left, leaving the curtain pulled around Roadblock, who just laid there, staring at the light and dark green striped fabric. He did not know what to think. His brain refused to function, it was stuck on the 'no more field work'. Thankfully, the orderly came a few minutes later and that distracted him from his uncooperative brain.

Doc was being overly cautious, since he knew that Roadblock's capacity to heal could be compromised and his risk if infection increased. He was tempted to transfer his patient to a hospital with an endocrinologist on hand, but injured Joes were a handful to treat even with trained staff to deal with them. While roadblock was in the infirmary on a restricted diet, coordinating his food intake and insulin would be easier.


	2. Chapter 2

It took a few weeks before Doc was comfortable releasing Roadblock from the infirmary. It had taken a while to get the insulin dosages sorted out. There had also been a few rounds of antibiotics to deal with infections. Perforated intestines were notorious for that kind of trouble. Once, fully released from the infirmary, Roadblock was still to report back on a regular basis to get his sugar levels checked.

After a month, Roadblock was starting to feel almost normal. He had finally been cleared for regular PT. He had been permitted a limited exercise regime for a while, but was looking forward to getting back into the full swing of things. Doc had finally stopped pestering him about his blood sugar levels every day, and was content with checking his logs once a week.

It had appalled Roadblock to see food reduced to stats on a page, broken down into: protein, starch, milk, fruit, vegetable, and fat. Food was a celebration of taste, textures and smell. It should not be reduced to numbers. Then Nurse Maggie had pointed out that he should look at his log as recipes. Keeping track of food in terms of cups and spoons did make things a bit more acceptable to the chef.

One thing that Roadblock still felt weird about was pricking him self for the blood tests and the insulin injections. He did it in the privacy of his room, or in the bathroom stall.

As he ran the five mile course, he was trying hard to put all thought of diabetes out of his mind. He focussed on going as fast as he could. However, a little voice at the back of his mind kept nagging him about not having had any breakfast. Everyone knew that the secret of getting through Beach Head's PT was to do it on an empty stomach. Besides, the mess hall would not be open until 20 minutes after the end of PT. Roadblock had dutifully checked his blood sugar before leaving his room, and it had been okay.

It was great to feel the burn of muscle as they were pushed. The morning breeze against his face was more refreshing than a hundred showers. Roadblock concentrated on filling his lungs with the cool crisp air. The tug of his new scar was easy to ignore. He kept at the head of the pack and out of Beach Head's yelling range.

At the PT course, Roadblock got a few minutes to catch his breath as Beach Head gave the instructions for the obstacle course. They were to go through it in alphabetic, putting Roadblock in the last quarter.

As most of the other waiting soldiers, Roadblock kept on moving. He jogged in place, stretched, and worked through basic katas, to keep his muscles supple and warm. As the time passed, he grew aware of people around him talking, whispering about him. Roadblock became irritated and glared at them. Then he tried to ignore their stares back. He turned his attention to the course, but could feel the eyes on his back. Those on the course were doing horribly! Beach Head was yelling and making them go through again. That meant that Roadblock had to wait for his turn that much longer. He got even more irked. He wanted to yell at the pogues too! He wanted to tell them to move their asses.

Roadblock was about to step onto the field to toss Shipwreck over the last climbing wall to make him go faster when a hand came down on his shoulder. He almost jumped out of his skin, turned, caught the arm attached to the offending hand, and twisted it behind its owner's back.

"Easy Man!" Gong Ho said. "Are you okay? You look a pale."

Roadblock let go, and wiped his clammy hand on his shirt. "I am fine." He growled. "Why is every one staring at me?"

From the start line of the obstacle course, Beach Head yelled: "Roadblock, your up. Come show me you did not go soft spending all that time in Doc's company."

Roadblock jumped onto the course, determined to tear through it. He was not going to give Beach Head anything to complain about. He channelled all his angry energy on to the course.

He flew up the first wall, bouncing off the small footholds like they were stairs. He easily jump the ten feet over the mud pit and bounced into the tire course. He went through as agile as any ninja. Roadblock felt like he was flying through the course. Beach Head was even yelling encouragement to him.

Halfway through the course, Roadblock hit the rope ladder like it was a brick wall. He suddenly realised that his hands were slippery and cold with sweat. He had a hard time gripping the ropes. 'The Jackass greased them!' He thought, but managed to drag himself to the top.

The next step was a horizontal foot rope with perpendicular short ropes hanging down for hand holds. Beach Head had come up with it to add challenge to those who had enough balance to walk on the foot rope without help. Now, they had to work around the dangling ropes. Most, grabbed one hand hold rope then the next.

Roadblock reached for the hand rope, and moved his feet. The darn wind had picked up, making to ropes move. The movement made them shimmer. 'What kind of paint did he use?' He thought as he reached for the next rope, that shimmered out of existence.

The world turned black.

TBC

Thank you for the reviews.


	3. Chapter 3

Author's note: I've been traveling all weekend, and just got back today. I took my little guy to see Thomas the Train in Boothbay, Maine. So there are probably more spelling issues with this chapter. Anyone interested in Beta reading this story is welcome to drop me a line.

Roadblock woke some time later in the infirmary, with the worse hangover headache of his life.

"I told you never to run PT without breakfast!" Nurse Maggie said angrily. It took her a lot to get angry, but when she did, she was scary. Her red hair stood on end around her head like a fiery hallow.

Roadblock stammered a littler. "Everyone knows you can't run PT on a full stomach."

"There is a difference between full and fasting. You," she pointed a finger at him, "soldier can no longer do it fasting." She handed him a can. "You should at least take a cup of this."

Roadblock looked at the protein shake powder and wrinkled his nose. He hated that stuff. He could smell the stink of it through the can.

"You don't have to go with that. It is just what I use. Two slices of whole wheat bread, some peanut butter, and fruit will do the same. Just eat an hour before you go."

Roadblock grumbled.

"I can have Doc pull you off of morning PT all together."

"No!" Most would have been excited to be exempted from the torture called morning PT, but for Roadblock it was a mark that he was whole again, still a soldier. Part of him was still in denial that his field days were over. He just had to get back into shape.

"Okay. Doc will be by in a bit. He will tell you how long you have to stay here, and when you can return to duty."

"I feel fine," Roadblock grumbled.

"Yes you do dear!" Nurse Maggie said with a severity in her tone that has tamed worse patients than him. "You only have splitting headache for that mild concussion and probably some nausea from that little no breakfast stunt." Her eyes were as dark as stormy clouds, and it was as if lightning cracked trough her hair. "You are going to stay in that bed until Doc gives you the all clear. Hear me?"

"Yes Ma'am!"

"Good! As soon as Doc gives the okay, I'll send you some breakfast."

About fifteen minute later, Doc came by. "I am keeping you here until morning," he said without preamble.

Roadblock groaned.

"Hey, this is all your own doing," the doctor said. "You were told not to do PT fasting. We are getting ready for a mission, so it is easier for my staff to keep an eye on you here, rather than having someone got to your room every few hours. And I will feel better when I see your sugar levels back under control."

"When can I go back to PT?" Roadblock asked.

"The day after tomorrow. But you have to come here first, to get checked out."

Roadblock laid his head back and sighed.

Doc sat on the foot of Roadblock's bed. "Listen, I understand that every soldier that comes through here feels out of control. But you can be 100% in control of your diabetes. You control what and when you eat. You control your insulin. You document things right and this will not happen again. The only time things might be a get a little out of whack is if you get sick."

Roadblock was silent. He certainly did not feel in control.

"I've got something for you," Doc said holding out something small. Roadblock took it. "It is a Medical Alert medal. I would like you to add it to your dog tag chain."

"Don't these come as bracelets?" the patient asked turning the medal over and reading the fine-print on the back.

"They do, but they also come as medals. I figured that if you have it with your dog tags, you are less likely to 'forget' it somewhere."

Roadblock took off his dog tags and added the medal to the chain.

The next morning when Roadblock got back to his room, he found bar size fridge at the foot of his bunk with a toaster on top. Held by a magnet, was a copy of the diabetic food guide. In the fridge, he found whole wheat bread, peanut butter and apples.

Some Joe's share apartment style quarters, but most shared rooms with 2, 4 or 6 beds, set as double bunks. Roadblock had his two bed bunk to himself, ever since Footloose had been killed in action the year before.

There was a knock at the door.

"It is not locked," he called out.

A greenshirt, Roadblock recognised as being General Hawk's assistant stepped in.

"Sir, the General request that you come to his office at 0930."

Roadblock glanced at his watch that was forty five minutes away.

"Tell the General I'll be there."

"Yes, Sir." The young man almost, but not quite clicked his heels together and left.

Roadblock watch the door close and then looked around the room. It was as tidy as he had left it the morning before. Looking for something to do, and not wanting to face a public area just yet, he grabbed a cloth from the cabinet under the sink in his small bathroom and started to dust the room. He liked to be ready for surprise inspections. It also gave him something to take his mind off the upcoming meeting.


	4. Chapter 4

At precisely 0930, Roadblock knocked on the General's door.

"Come in." Before he was through the door, the General said: "Sit."

Roadblock took the offered chair and sat straight.

"Doc has cleared you for base duty only," the G.I. Joe commander stated. "As much as I hate losing you as a field soldier, I fully agree with him. With that said, I have a temporary post for you. Chef has requested an infinite leave, because his mother is very ill. I need someone to take over the kitchens in his absence. Can you do it?"

"In charge of the kitchens? Yes, Sir I can do it. No problem Sir."

Roadblock wanted to cook. He had always wanted to be a chef. He hated to work with the bulk items, dehydrated mystery flakes that the army called staples, but he was convinced he could bring the those ingredients to a higher, tastier standard.

"Roadblock, I know that you love to cook, but keep in mind that we had a strict budget for food stuff, and everyone has to be feed. As much as I love your lasagne, we cannot afford to have it every night. Can you stick to the budget?"

"Yes, Sir!"

"Good. Dismissed."

Roadblock stood, saluted his General and turned to leave.

"Oh, Roadblock. Doc told me to tell you to keep your fingers out of the pots. Whatever that means."

"Yes Sir. Will do Sir."

In the main kitchen, Chef took Roadblock on a tour. He gave his replacement the menu for the next three months. He showed Roadblock how to fill out the logs that tracked the foodstuff and the requisition forms. He also showed Roadblock the budget and ordering catalogues.

They went through the duty roster, and who was good at what. Running the kitchens was much like running any other military operation. The objective was to utilise all the resources, human and material, to accomplish a specific goal: get the meals out at a precise time to feed everyone.

Roadblock looked at the menu and saw that liver was the main ingredient for lunch. It was a cheap source of protein and high in iron. Few people entering the army liked it, but most grew to develop some acceptance of it. However, Roadblock immediately started to look through the inventory to see how he could make the organ meat tastier.

He ordered one of the kitchen staff to get the large cans of tomato soup that were available, along with five pounds of bacon. It was not enough bacon to flavour the meat to his liking, but if he used some of the grease to sear the meat in, it would not be too bad.

He had the liver sliced thinner than usual, rolled in flour and spices, seared and then well cooked in the tomato soup and caramelised onions. The odd lucky person would get a crumb of bacon. He spiced up the potatoes by mixing half flakes and half real spuds. He showed one of the assistant cooks how to caramelise the butter before mixing it in with the mashed potatoes. He also had a bit of bacon grease added to the mix.

The only thing he could not do anything about was the mushed caned green peas. He would have to experiment. The problem was that particular cheap brand was only available in bulk. He could not just get a small can to work with. If he worked with a sample out of a large can, he would have to do it right after opening it, for the darn things tended to go rancid within hours. He would have to time it right. Roadblock also took a mental note to see how he could have salad greens and more fresh vegetables added to the food stuff supplies. He had gotten some in town for his own dietary needs, but he thought it would be nice if everyone could have access to a similar fresh spread.

Conscientious of his new condition, Roadblock took careful notes of what he sampled and how much. He also checked his sugar levels regularly. He kept a detail log of what he ate, how much insulin he took, and his sugar numbers.

Everyone was overjoyed to find out that Roadblock had been assigned to the kitchens. Many had been disappointed to discover the hated liver on the menu, but most had been impressed by its preparation.

A few weeks later, during his regular check in with Doc, Nurse Maggie had informed him that they had a date for his diabetic teaching, and that an insulin pump was on its way.

"I don't need to go to that," he complained. "I am doing fine with all the information you have given me."

"You have been doing well but I still think you should go," the nurse said.

"I've been keeping my sugars in the acceptable range. I don't need any more teaching."

The nurse looked at him for a long moment.

"I will make you a deal. If you have no episodes of extreme low or high blood sugars levels between here and in three weeks, when your appointment with the clinic is, I will cancel it."

"Deal!" Roadblock felt like he had just won a major battle. He would show her he could manage his diabetes on his own.

"See you in a month, unless you need us before."

"A month sounds good to me!" With that he was off.


	5. Chapter 5

Roadblock loved his new job. He was getting better at managing the people under his command. He enjoyed even more taking the standard army grub and turning it into something akin to gourmet. He introduced new dishes with the limited supply he had. He also managed to rearrange the budget a little, taking off some useless food stuff off (like that horrible orange goo they was called cheese), to get the equivalent, sometimes cheaper, always healthier and tastier 'real' version. For example, mozzarella and cheddar now came in 50 pound blocks. It was a pain to grate or slice, but there were always sufficient people on KP to work on the cheese. Even Beach Head could grate cheese without getting into any kitchen related trouble. Roadblock also found frozen peas to replace the can mush. They were a bit more expensive, required a freezer, but they were wasting a lot less. Before, half cans of green mush were tossed on a regular basis. Now, because of the quality of the product, unused portions could easily be reused in soups and stews. In addition, more were being eaten outright.

As he got use to it all, the cook got more lax in monitoring his blood sugar levels. He did not need to report to Doc or Nurse Maggie until the end of the month. He stopped carrying his food log with him. In the beginning, Roadblock was very diligent about completing it from memory before going to bed. Then he started skipping the odd night. 'I can keep it all in my head,' he told himself. He also started skipping blood checks, reasoning that he was too busy, and he now knew how his sugar levels fluctuated through the day.

A large shipment of food stuff arrived, the first of its size that Roadblock had to coordinate. It was a lot of work to catalogue everything, make sure the boxes contained what they said they did, and get them all properly stored. At the same time, the regular meals had to be prepared. On top of it all, 250 greenshirts were going on a 48 hour training mission, and meals need to be prepared for them. The shipment of MREs had been delayed, and the little that was left was being kept for longer mission in unknown hostile territory.

The kitchen staff was hopping, including Roadblock, who took a bite here and there, sampling the cooking. He grabbed a sandwich from a pile, when he noticed he had passed his lunch time. Only once he bit into it, did he realise that it was made of peanut butter and jam. He knew that he should not be eating it especially that it had been made with white bread. However, he was hungry and did not want his sugars to drop.

He grabbed another bottle of water, he kept finding his empty. If he discovered who was dumping it out, they would hear from him! They would be scrubbing the worse pots and grating cheese in their spare time for months! Better yet, they would scrub the pots Beach Head's greenshirts would bring back, until they shined like new.

Roadblock, stopped at the bathroom between the store rooms and the main kitchen. He had lost track how many times he had done that particular stop. He automatically filled his water bottle with tap water and downed half the content before relieving himself. He had just finished zipping his pants, when he was overcome with nausea. When there was nothing else coming up, he sat on the toilet seat, regaining his breath, and trying to calm the shakes that had over taken him.

He took out the glucose meter he kept in his pocket, and checked his blood sugar. It read way too high. Thinking back to the last few hours, Roadblock tried to make a tally of all what he had eaten and guest how much insulin he should take. He took out his insulin pen and dosed himself.

He still felt a little shaky, but there was still a lot of work to be done. He rinsed out his mouth, washed his face and hands, downed the remaining half bottle of water and refilled it again. The cold spring water felt good on his irritated throat.

Roadblock stepped out of the bathroom and headed for the kitchen. As he got closer, the door suddenly shifted to be wall and all went black.

Sometime later, he woke to the familiar ceiling of the infirmary. The IV in his back of his left hand itched like mad. He reached over to scratch at it, but a hand slapped his away.

"No you don't," Lifeline said. "Just to warn you; Nurse Maggie is not impressed with you right now. She went and got your food log."

Roadblock groaned. "I've been busy," he answered meekly. "Can I just talk to Doc, and be out of here? There is still a lot of work to be done in the kitchen."

"Doc is on a mission. You're going to stay here until we get your sugar levels back under control. What did you do? Just guess at how much you needed?"

"Something like that," the patient mumbled. He was reaching for the IV again. He wanted to rip the thing out.

"Don't touch it," Lifeline said sternly.

"But it itches like the dickens," Roadblock complained.

"Hold on, I'll replace the tape." The medic held the line securely and pulled off the tape. Under it was all red.

"Your darn tape gave me a rash!" Roadblock said angrily.

"It never has before," Lifeline said calmly. He knew that his patient's mood swings were because of his fluctuating sugar levels. "I'll take it out and set another line up in your other hand."

"Do you really have to?" the cook whined.

"Well, I guess I could find a vein every hour and manually inject the electrolytes and medication that you require." Lifeline's voice was very calm and reasonable, as if he was really considering it.

"I see!" Huffed Roadblock. "Fine, put it back in. Just don't use your itchy tape."

"I'll make sure to use a different brand. Do you want to use the bathroom before I hook you back up?"

Roadblock suddenly became aware of the pressure in his bladder. He nodded and sat up a bit too fast. The room began to spin, and the nausea came back.

"Easy friend," Lifeline helped his patient lay back down. Roadblock laid there for a few minutes, willing the room to stop spinning and fought the nausea. "Take deep breaths," the medic instructed calmly.

Once the room had stopped moving, the cook got to his feet slowly. He found that he was shaky and felt weak. He leaned on Lifeline during the short walk to the bathroom. Once there, Roadblock was grateful that the medic did not offer to go in and help. The trip back to the bed was a little better. Exhausted, he dozed off.

Roadblock awoke to Nurse Maggie's touch on his arm. "Well, you did it this time, Marvin!" She seldom used their real names, but when she did it had impact. "I looked at the log of yours. You did a pretty crappy job, soldier."

"I am sorry Ma'am," he said contritely. "I was busy."

"You are never too busy to take care of yourself! I am sure you had even less time for this," she indicated the infirmary with her hand. "If your job keeps you that busy, maybe we should discuss a medical discharge when Doc comes back."

"No!" Roadblock exclaimed.

"You got to take care of yourself, no matter how busy you get. Understand?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Good. Now, let me see about that rash and set up that new IV. I brought a different type of tape, it does not stick as good, but if you stay quiet, it will not be a problem."


	6. Chapter 6

A week later, Roadblock walked into the diabetic clinic of Memorial Hospital. He followed the directions that were in the packet that Nurse Maggie had given him. He also had the insulin pump that Doc had promised. The army doctor had suggested that Roadblock find out from the clinic how to set it up and maintain it.

He felt out of place, like he did not belong. However, he knew that Nurse Maggie would have his hide if he went AWOL for the day. He walked up to the reception clerk and registered. Then, the clerk sent him to a room.

The room was fairly large, with a big conference table and two dozen chairs around it. There are about fifteen people there, and they made him fell even more out of place. Many were obese, some morbidly. A few were elderly, and there was a mother trying to keep a toddler entertained. Roadblock sat near the mother.

"Hi," she greeted him with a warm smile.

Roadblock went to answer back, but further introductions were interrupted by the entrance of a nurse.

"Hello everyone, welcome to Memorial Hospital's diabetic teaching class," she said. "For most of you, it is your first time here. Here is how we will proceed. Each of you will meet with a nurse individually. You will be called in alphabetical order. Then you will come back here. We will have a presentation on the consequences of miss managed diabetes. After, there will be a fifteen minute break and snacks. You will be asked to check your blood sugar before you eat. Then we will discuss the causes of diabetes. We will stop for lunch. You will be asked to check your blood sugar levels, and record which meal you have chosen, and how much you have eaten of it. This afternoon, we will discuss nutrition. The afternoon break and snack will be at 3:00. Afterwards, we will have a question and answer session. Finally, you will meet with the nurse again, once done you will be able to leave. Don't worry if you lost track of any of this, we will tell you what to do as we go." The nurse had rattled all of the information off without appearing to take a breath.

As if on cue, three other nurses entered the room, two female, one male.

The youngest nurse called out: "Peter Chilton."

The other woman requested: "Rita Emerson."

"Marvin Hilton."

Roadblock followed the male nurse to a small exam room.

"Hi, Marvin, my name is Carson. I will be your nurse for today." He glanced at Roadblock's file. "It says here you are army."

"Yes, sir."

"And you lost your pancreas due to injury."

"A bullet, sir."

The nurse glanced up at the large man, smiling at him. "You don't have to use Sir

"Yes, S… Okay."

"First, I'll take your weight and body measurements to check your BMI. Although, in your case your body mass at this point is not an issue. You'll be hearing a lot about the importance of maintaining a healthy body weight and weight loss. In your case, I suspect that maintaining your muscle mass will be the challenge. If you don't manage your condition right, you will start to loose muscle. Have you noticed any weight loss?"

"I went down while recovering. Now, I am almost back to my starting point."

Blood was drawn, urine samples taken to check for proteins and ketones. "I suggest you check your urine for sugar, especially if you notice that it smells sweet." The nurse said. "Do you have any questions at this point?"

"I feel like I should be keeping notes," Roadblock said.

"You'll leave here with a binder with all the information that we are going to tell you today. There will also be phone numbers to call when you have questions. Is there anything else?"

"Well, Doc gave me this before I left and told me you guys would show me how to use it." Roadblock held out the insulin pump.

The nurse whistled, "Ooo! The infuser 2000!"

"It is good?" Roadblock asked.

"Newest one on the market. Expensive too. I've only seen a demo unit. Did you read the manual that comes with it?"

"Some, but it is kind of confusing." Roadblock handed the booklet to the nurse.

"I can show you the basics of setting it up. I'll read the details over lunch, and we can go through it all this afternoon."

Carson showed Roadblock how to set up the pump, and insert the small tube. In the beginning, the cook could feel the tube under his skin. It was a little annoying. He was also dubious at having to move it every few days to a new location. However, by the time he returned to the main room to wait for the next part of the clinic, he no longer noticed the presence of the intruding instrument. He even forgot that the pump itself was strapped to his upper left arm. Nurse Carson had explained that he could also wear the pump on his belt or around his leg above his ankle. The Infuser 2000 came with all the straps and pouches for all those locations. Roadblock decided he preferred it around his upper arm. His chef uniform had short sleeves, so accessing it was easy. He also felt that it was more sanitary than reaching down to pull up a pant leg. The belt pouch offered something that could be bumped, hooked, or have something dumped on it.

In the common room, Roadblock sat back down by the mother and her toddler.

"Still waiting for your turn?" he asked her, looking to make conversation.

"We go last. My name is Gina." She held out her hand.

"R…Marvin." He shook her hand.

"I've never seen you before, is it your fist time here?"

Roadblock nodded. "It is not your fist time here?"

She shook her head, smiling a little. "We come back every four to six weeks."

"Why do people come back?"

"Some find that it is too much information the first time around. Others get sent back by their doctors, or dragged back by love ones because they are not managing their diabetes."

"And you?" He could not help but asking.

"Peter here has juvenile diabetes. We found out when he was six months. My husband had been working two jobs, but none have any health coverage. So making ends meet, while making sure that Peter gets the insulin and supplies he needs is not easy. The hospital can not officially help us out. But the director of the clinic has agreed to let us come back as often as she can get us in. They cover the cost of strips and insulin for the day. Sometimes they slip me a few extra strips and the end of vials of insulin. We also get lunch out of it."

Trough the day, Roadblock and Gina became friends. Before having her son, she ran a small catering company. She became a stay at home mom, because she could not afford any daycare facility or sitter that would take care of Peter's medical needs. Instead, she managed the money that came in with an iron hand to make sure Peter got what he needed, and her husband and she got to eat at least two meals a day.

They talked about food, and the challenges of preparing meals for a large group of people on time and on a budget. They shared stories of their cooking experiences and even a few recipes.

During the day, Roadblock was amazed at how the woman kept her busy toddler entertained, while keeping him from disrupting any of sessions. Peter was as active as any toddler Roadblock had ever met. He looked happy and healthy. The only time he threw a fit is when he saw the insulin pen come out.

"Some day, I hope I can get him an insulin pump," Gina said, as she expertly held Peter down with one hand and injected him using the other. "Maybe when he is in school, and I can start my catering business again."

At the end of the day, Roadblock was dazed by all the information that he had gotten. Some had been quite graphic, like the pictures of gangrene and amputated limbs. He was grateful to have a binder of information to take back with him to base. He was already getting use to the pump, and really liked that he did not have to inject himself any more.

However, what stayed with him as he drove back to the PIT, were the images of Gina and Peter. Something changed in him. Up until that point, although he had not consciously admitted it, he had felt self pity for himself. He was no longer the soldier he once was. He was stuck serving his country behind a stove and pots. He would never again experience the adrenaline rush of field work. He had to constantly think about what he was eating, and how much insulin he needed. He had to endure needle pricks and injections. If he was less than vigilant, he landed in the infirmary. If he let himself go, he would wind up like the skinny lifeless old man that has been at the diabetic teaching clinic with him.

What Roadblock came to realise and accept during his ride 'home', was that when he signed the recruiter's documents, he accepted the possibility that he could be hurt in the line of duty. When he accepted a position with G.I. Joe, he knew the odds of it happening had gone up considerably. Thinking back to his Christmas visits to the Joe's long term care facility, he had gotten off pretty easy. He could still walk, talk, and work for the team. By feeding the troupes, he did his part in fighting COBRA. Men trained and fought better on full stomachs, and having something good to eat at the same time made it that much better.

Peter had not signed on any dotted line to get diabetes. His parents had not done anything for him to be afflicted with the disease. Roadblock had spoken to Nurse Carson, and he had confirmed Gina and Peter's story. Here was an American family fighting a battle. It was different than fighting terrorist, but diabetes was the body's terrorist in its own right. They also fought against the lack of funded health care. Unlike them, Roadblock never had to worry about having enough money for medication or supplies.

When he had signed up to serve his country, he had understood he could get hurt. Now, he accepted that reality and all its consequences. For everyone who had not signed up to become diabetics, he would do his absolute best manage his condition. He would be grateful every day to have an employer that provided him with the medical care he required.

Over the years and decades that followed, now and again Roadblock's resolve to manage his condition would slip a little. He experienced bouts of frustration and a bit of depression, especially when he would get ill for reasons that were outside of his control. However, he would always think about little Peter and other diabetic people he met along the years. He counted his blessings and kept on going. He was a soldier and this was the war he was given to fight. He knew he would probable never win it, but he intended on winning as many battles as he could.


	7. Chapter 7

Epilogue

"What can I do for you Roadblock?" General Hawk asked.

The cook had asked for a meeting with the General a few days after his visit at the diabetic clinic. An idea had come to him.

"Sir, when I was at the clinic the other day, I met a lady. She has a little boy who has juvenile diabetes. They are on a restricted income. Some days, she and her husband skip meals to make ends meet, so they can afford the medical supplies they need for their little boy.

"Sir, with your permission, I would like to have a bake sale a few times a month to raise some money to help them get an insulin pump. Having to be jabbed with an insulin pen several times a day as an adult is bad enough, but to go through it at two is unimaginable. No child should go through this."

General Hawk stared at his soldier for a long moment.

"You can use the facilities, but you have to buy your own supplies. It must not interfere with any one's duties."

"I understand Sir. Thank you Sir. It is all I asked for."

Roadblock saluted and left.

His weekly bake sale was an instant hit with all the Joes. They did not mind paying a dollar or two per cookie or muffin. They enjoyed the treats and agreed that the money was going to a good cause. Soon, sweets from care packages were donated to the bake sale table. Within months, Roadblock had collected enough funds to pay for the pump and a year's supply of insulin. He took them to the director of the Diabetic Clinic, who passed them on to Gina for Peter.

Roadblock briefly considered stopping the monthly bake sales, but he was met with a lot of protest. So he decided to keep on, and kept on giving the money to Gina through the Diabetic Clinic. He had helped others win a battle in his war, and it felt good.


End file.
